This is a poem I should have posted long ago.

A forest with broad brushstrokes painted. Green
and blue and brown the palette of the day--
but there! within that sunbeam's golden ray
a flash of colour. Movement barely seen,
yet captivating. Breaking from routine
I move towards it, hoping that I may
more clearly see this colour in the grey.
Today with fondness I recall the scene:
The butterfly is dancing on the breeze
itself a world entire, when to the bland
surroundings is compared. Entranced, I freeze,
I hold my breath and gently raise my hand.
This beauty I would crush were I to seize...
My heart nears stops as down she comes to land.

Insistence

Jul. 15th, 2012 12:21 am
Looking through the poems I wrote on my laptop, this one jumps out as one that doesn't give away any secrets I'd rather were kept. More importantly, I like the way it flows. It was written last August.

The sonnet itself was wrriten as a response to the question "Because of course I could have given you all the warnings in the world, but answer me this: Would you have ended it to protect yourself? Would you have been any less hurt if it went wrong?"

All lives are filled with misery and pain.
Although from time to time we might feel joy
'tis rare and special. Pain does not destroy
our happiness, although it does constrain
and draw the bounds -- No, joy has not free rein
to leap and frolic so throughout a life,
but must be given edges, as a knife
is used to split the meat and bone in twain.
With all the warnings in the world what would
I do? Would I have any less been hurt?
a question once proposed I must subvert
(discussing this I'm oft misunderstood.)
Despite what others do, I must assert
that pain can be accepted for the good.
Haven't written much lately, but it's been on my mind to try more. Stories or non-fiction perhaps, or maybe more poems. Looking back over the recently written, there aren't exactly many to share. A couple poems writ with intended audience of one or less. But also this one, which I'd forgotten about. I was quite pleased, at the time (November?) that I'd written an invocation of sorts.

I pray some gentle rain to come and wash
away the week. The sweat of toil, the dirt
from travel to and fro. Rain down and quash
the weary heated thoughts, the ones that hurt
as through my tortured heart they run, aflame
with fear that feeds on loathing's fuel. My face,
once wet with tears, your waters shall reclaim.
Erode my furrowed brow, and leave no trace
thereon of guilt or pain. Then soon shall grow
a smile broad and deep and calm. A lake
of pure contentment I shall be. I know
your soothing rainfall shall once more awake
my vibrant side. Renewal and rebirth
within my soul just as it is on Earth.
Here's another lazy sonnet, written in lectures to vent various frustrations. Not necessarily about a particular lecturer, it describes the incompetence of plenty of 'em.

These bite sized bits of content coupled with
this need for constantly repeating each
and every thing that's said; it seems as if
a lecturer is chosen not to teach,
for if they were these lectures would be worth
attending. Well, for more than just the jokes.
'Tis well that we can have a source of mirth,
for joy should ne'er be shackled by the yokes
of formal education. Nor by slides
from bloody Powerpoint. No surer way
to package things to deaden minds
has yet been found. To seriously convey,
the presentation of material
should rise above the managerial.

Thankfully, I have only a week or so of lectures left.
Tonight I've been reading up on various things. Mostly Hellenistic mathematics, which I have no poems for. But also partly some discussion on the art of pick-up, which was interesting, and which I can almost relate to the subject of a poem I've written. Almost:

I lie awake on cold and empty nights
and although sleep is yet to come, I dream.
Of how I wish things were. A single theme
pervades these thoughts, the same my pen now writes.
Oh, how I miss relationships! The heights.
The lows. A kiss. Embraces that just seem
to be too short. To talk 'til dawn does gleam.
I even envy other couples' fights -
There's naught that I don't wish that I still had.
and yet what foolish thoughts are these of mine,
For even not alone, I'd still be sad.
Were I together with a girl so fine
the merest sight of her could make men glad,
For sure I'd find some reason still to whine.
While occasionally I do try something a little different like that last one, I do enjoy writing sonnets. They are a nice size for a single idea. Whether or not it is a nice idea.

Here is another poem from a while ago.

A sonnet from some summer or other )

Lecturers.

May. 14th, 2010 10:23 pm
A while back I posted the first draft for an essay. While a sonnet was far less than the required three thousand words, the essay I ended up handing in... well, I didn't end up taking it more seriously than that. Still, I scored 90% somehow for my Frankenstein themed dialogue.

Not all lecturers are cool enough as to provide such marks, alas.

I recently found a sonnet and a half I wrote back in Autumn of last year (2009) complaining about a lecturer or two. Finished the second and here they are.

Well, 'here' being after this cut. )
I've been playing Fallout 3 lately, with a mod that increases the number of period (read: 50s) songs on the in game radio immensely. I shouldn't be surprised to find there are many popular 50s songs I love, including 'Dream a little dream of me'.

And speaking of dreams... )
So I got started on the second draft of my Physical Chemistry assignment today. 700 words written out of 3000. Three thousand words for an assessment item worth 6% of the final mark. Ugh. But I'm having fun with it - my current first line is "It was a dark and stormy night", and my first draft looked like this:

To understand electrochemistry
behaviour of solutions must be known,
not concentration, but activity
is used, because ions are not alone.
A way to model this has been proposed
by Debye and Hückel, who wrote a law
to find activity, where they supposed
it was Coulumbic forces, with a more
appropriate value for epsilon:
the permittivity of the solvent.
First they considered with no forces on
the ions, then with charges on, which meant
the chemical potential changes could
reveal the co-efficient. Which is good.
I love sonnets. This is my first attempt at the Petrarchan rhyming scheme, but the words still flowed as easily as the wine.

I hope that sorrows never learn to swim;
To make their way upriver like a trout.
For if they do then we shall be without
a way to put them down, and at their whim
would cry a flood to cure any drought.
We do need alcohol to bring about
a cure for melancholy with no doubt
it will succeed. No need for feeling grim.
But maybe there are other ways to deal;
perhaps another way to face this grief.
Who knows? It may be drowning doesn't work,
that it merely postpones, and cannot heal.
While drink provides a moment of relief
it might just push the sorrow down to lurk.
So today I found out that I didn't fail any subjects this semester. Given what I was submitting, this comes as almost a surprise. For Physical Chemistry I only just scraped through. I bet I would have failed if it weren't for giving this answer to a question on the exam:

The steady state approximation is
not something which I studied for at all.
So I'll have to give this question a miss
instead of banging my head on the wall.
I guess I could just write down random words
on the subject this question is about,
but that notion is really quite absurd
my ignorance would surely be found out.
And so I must apologise to you -
this is inexcusable on my part -
A silly rhyming answer will not do:
this is a course of Science, not of Art!
But I shall write a sonnet in this test
and hope I got enough marks in the rest.
This semester just gone I took four courses. I, um, submitted poetry as part of my final assessment for three of those.

I spent far longer working on this Sonnet than I did on the essay I put it at the start of.

The faces of the crowd are focused on
her lively racing pen upon the board.
With symbols from that pen a light is shone
into the cluttered mindset of the horde.
And as her hands these arcane patterns trace
a murmur from the crowd begins to rise.
They start to notice what they'll have to face
and anger sparks and flashes in their eyes.
The knowledge that they hold in high esteem -
the formulae and facts explaining all -
once firm and strong as marble, now are steam
compared to what is written on the wall.
But while they should be thankful for this proof,
their hatred shows just how much they love Truth.

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JayDee

February 2013

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